


The Sorting

by allofmyheart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Sorting Ceremony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofmyheart/pseuds/allofmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Headmistress Minerva McGonagall watches the next generation of Hogwarts students being sorted, and experiences some unexpected emotions. Set 17 years after the events of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, swept along the corridor, her mouth a thin line of displeasure. It was irritatingly typical of Argus Filch that, today of all days, he should insist on taking more than an hour of her time in reviewing and extending the list of items banned at Hogwarts. Most of the objects in question were manufactured and supplied by Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and at times it had been hard for Minerva to suppress a wry smile as she imagined the pleasure that this knowledge would bring to George Weasley, and would have brought to his brother, Fred. Minerva had no interest in the details and was more than happy to leave the matter up to Filch, knowing as she did that most Hogwarts students were extremely resourceful in obtaining and concealing the banned items whatever he might do. But Filch seemed to take a lascivious pleasure in naming every hated device individually and describing its heinous properties to her. Their discussion had delayed her preparations for the start-of-term feast that evening, and now she was in danger of being late. Reaching the stone gargoyle, she barked the password, the gargoyle sprang aside and she ascended the smoothly revolving staircase up to her study. She strode quickly across the large, circular room that had once been Dumbledore’s and into her private living quarters beyond it.

The Headmistress’s face softened slightly as she entered the bed-chamber and saw her tartan dress-robes neatly laid out ready for her. Winky the house-elf had anticipated what she would need and got everything ready. Winky had been much happier since she had devoted herself to Professor McGonagall’s service, and though she hardly liked to admit it, even to herself, the Headmistress’s rather austere life had been made much easier by the many small comforts which the elf provided each day.

Minerva briskly brushed her steel-grey hair and pinned it firmly back into a bun again. She stood as erect as ever and apart from her hair, her appearance gave little other sign of her age. She changed into the dress robes, glanced at herself in the mirror and gave her hat a final tweak. Satisfied, she opened the door and went back into the Head’s study.

“You look splendid, Minerva” said the voice of Albus Dumbledore, and she turned to see him surveying her from his portrait, his blue eyes twinkling. “Thank you, Albus” she replied a touch primly. She crossed to her desk and picked up the roll of parchment containing the list of the year’s new students. Usually she would read through the list in advance in preparation for calling out the names at the feast, but today Filch’s tiresome interruption had left her with no time to do so. She slipped the parchment inside her robes and made for the door.

“Enjoy the feast, won’t you? Another year of students to welcome!” called Dumbledore happily, and around the walls, the other headteachers’ portraits joined in a chorus of “Yes, yes, enjoy the feast! How lovely to see the new students! Do welcome them from me, won’t you?”. Phineas Nigellus sniffed and commented “I hope they are up to the standard we would desire”. Only the portrait of Severus Snape remained silent. Snape was sitting sideways to her, one elbow resting on his desk, long legs stretched out in front of him, apparently absorbed in a book, and gave no sign of having noticed her at all. Since this was not at all unusual, Minerva did not spare him a thought as she went back downstairs towards the feast.


	2. The Sorting

In the entrance hall, the crowd of first years was milling around in nervous excitement. It took Minerva several moments to work her way through them to the Great Hall. Hagrid’s great shaggy head stood out above the throng; he had guided them across the lake in the usual way, and judging by the shining droplets of water on his hair and beard, it was raining outside. By contrast, Professor Flitwick, the Deputy Head, had to climb several steps up the staircase before he could be seen by the students, and even then, many of them did not notice him until Hagrid roared “Quiet, now! Quiet for Professor Flitwick!” and they turned in some surprise to see the tiny wizard who wished to address them.

As Professor Flitwick explained the sorting procedure to the new first-years, Professor McGonagall entered the Hall, already crowded with students eagerly awaiting the feast. She walked briskly past the staff table, at which most of her colleagues were already seated, and entered the small ante-room off to one side of the Hall. Professor Flitwick had brought the Sorting Hat and the three-legged stool down here earlier in the day, in readiness for the Sorting. In truth, thought Minerva to herself, it should have been Filius Flitwick who read out the names for the Sorting, too; it was a task which rightly belonged to the Deputy Head. But it was something that she had always enjoyed; she felt it a pleasure and a privilege to welcome new students to the school in this way, and so she had…not ignored tradition, of course, but bent it a little…and continued to call the names even when she became Headmistress.

The buzz of conversation in the Great Hall was very loud as the students exchanged greetings and news with friends they had not seen for two months. However, it faded to an expectant hush as Professor McGonagall carried in the stool and the Sorting Hat and set them in the centre of the hall, in front of the staff table. The group of hesitant-looking first-years stood nearby, regarding the hat with looks ranging from puzzlement to apprehension. Astonishment spread over several of their faces as the Hat stirred itself into life, opened the rip like a mouth near its brim, and began to sing:

_Almost a thousand years ago_

_When Hogwarts was but new,_

_The founders four…_

Minerva relaxed a little, allowing her mind to unfocus as the Hat went through the usual recital of its purpose. The Great Hall was warm and familiar, shadowed by the dark swirling sky of the enchanted ceiling, but brightly lit by the hundreds of floating candles. The sea of students, the well-known faces of her colleagues at the staff table… it all felt right. She could not imagine life anywhere else.

Now the Hat was coming onto the newer part of its song:

_And as I sift and sort you,_

_I’m nearly always right,_

_But if you feel I’ve got it wrong_

_There’s an answer to your plight_

_Sometimes as wizards learn and grow_

_Their characters can change_

_The House that first was perfect_

_Can now seem wrong and strange_

_If this should be the case with you_

_Don’t be dismayed or fret_

_Just tell your Head of House, and then_

_A second chance you’ll get_

_I’ll sit upon your head once more_

_And spy what is inside_

_I’ll move you to another House_

_Just let me be your guide…_

Minerva recollected the first time the Hat had introduced this change, a few years after she had become Head. It had been a huge shock to her and the rest of the staff – such a radical change to the Sorting procedure, after nearly a thousand years, was unprecedented. Of course the Hat never talked anything over with anyone; it just sat, silently, from year to year, on its shelf in the Head’s study. But Minerva knew that it listened, must have overheard concerns voiced by Dumbledore before his death about whether the Sorting was too final a decision, made too young in a witch or wizard’s life. It would have heard her continuing the discussion with Dumbledore’s portrait, and had evidently come to its own decision and taken action. At first she had been alarmed, worried that there would be a flood of students changing from house to house and back again, but the Hat was too wise for that. There had been perhaps one or two pupils a year who made a second request for the Hat’s services. She and the Heads of House involved would talk it through, allow the request if it seemed genuine, and the Hat would consider, sometimes sticking by its original decision, sometimes moving the applicant to another house. She could not think of a single occasion when further difficulty had ensued: the new system was working well.

Now the Hat was drawing to a close: a round of applause greeted the end of its song, and as this faded, Minerva unrolled the piece of parchment supplied to her by Professor Flitwick and called out the first name:

“Arkwright, Reuben”

A small, nervous-looking boy approached the stool, sat on it and lifted the Hat onto his head. The Hat appeared to consider for a moment and then opened its brim and shouted “Hufflepuff!” A rousing cheer went up from the Hufflepuff table and Reuben Arkwight, looking very relieved, scampered off to join them. Professor McGonagall looked down for the next name on her list.

“Collier, Jane”

A girl with long dark plaits came forward and placed the Hat on her head. “Gryffindor!” it declared, and the girl ran off to the table on the far left to equally loud cheers.

“Crawford, Candice”

A round-faced black girl approached the stool; her already broad smile widened when the Hat declared her to be in Ravenclaw. At the staff table, Professor Flitwick was beaming too as he applauded.

“Elton, Edward”

“Slytherin!”

The furthest table now erupted into cheering as the first Slytherin was named.

“Flint, Brutus”

A large, muscular boy now walked to the stool; Minerva had little doubt that this was the son of the former Slytherin Quidditch Captain, Marcus Flint. The boy had a thuggish look about him and Minerva felt a slight unease; this one might turn out to be a bully. She felt no surprise when the Sorting Hat quickly declared Flint to be a Slytherin. Glancing at the staff table, she noticed the Head of Slytherin, Professor Zabini, regarding the boy keenly, his green-gold eyes glinting in his harsh, angular face. Minerva felt reassured. Blaise Zabini was as strict and as feared as ever Severus Snape had been, but she knew that he was fair and would be just as hard on those in his own house who were guilty of bullying as on any others.

Returning to the task in hand, Minerva called out “Gillespie, Hamish”. A boy with sandy curls came forward and was sorted into Ravenclaw.

“Harris, Clover”

“Gryffindor!”

“Khan, Tariq”

“Hufflepuff!”

Minerva glanced down and felt a sudden constriction in her throat as she read the next name: Longbottom, Frank. In her mind’s eye she could clearly see the first Frank Longbottom when he had been in her house: talented, a little quiet but fun-loving and friendly, with not an enemy in the world. How happy she had been to see him and Alice get married…but her stomach twisted and she felt physically sickened as she remembered visiting him after the attack by Bellatrix Lestrange and her associates. Try as she might, she could never forget the vacant eyes: the once strong and courageous young man reduced to nothing more than an empty, mumbling shell. The tragic, unnecessary cruelty of it made her burn inside, even now… With a shock she became aware of eyes upon her, curious: she had been silent for too long. What was she thinking? Swallowing hard, she managed to force out the name aloud:

“Longbottom, Frank”

She looked up to see a boy with his father’s round face and his mother’s blond hair walk towards the stool with nervous anticipation. To her right, she was aware of Neville Longbottom watching his son, almost bursting with a mixture of fatherly pride and anxiety. The young Frank Longbottom sat on the stool and placed the Sorting Hat onto his head: almost immediately it shouted “Gryffindor!” and both Frank and Neville’s faces split into huge relieved grins. Frank scuttled off to the Gryffindor table, and Minerva watched him being greeted happily by a second-year boy with coffee-coloured skin and a totally wicked grin. She gave a small wry smile: Fred Weasley Junior would make sure Frank was welcomed into Gryffindor, although who knew what mischief he might try to lead him into? The lump threatened to return to her throat: who would have thought she would ever feel a pang about Fred Weasley? But the image of him lying dead after the great Battle of Hogwarts was another that would never leave her... No, this would not do. She needed to pull herself together. Shaking her head a little, she forced herself to concentrate once more on the parchment in her hand, and called out:

“Miller, Robert”.The next boy came forward for sorting. 

“Slytherin!” 

“Owen, Myfanwy”

“Ravenclaw!” 

She was just getting back into her stride when she read the next name on the list and her stomach gave a great swoop. Potter, James. She looked up and there he was. With his father’s looks and his mother’s brown eyes, Harry and Ginny’s son was the image of the grandfather he had never known: the first James Potter. It was almost uncanny to see him standing there, and this time the memories came flooding back into Minerva’s mind. James, fooling about with his three friends at school; James, flying so daringly on the Quidditch pitch; James, looking radiantly happy on his wedding day. She had been spared the sight of his corpse, but she well remembered the overwhelming emotion of James and Lily’s joint funeral, in the little church at Godric’s Hollow: the elation that the wizarding world felt at Voldemort’s defeat made painful and bitter by the loss of such a brave young couple. 

Too late, she realised that she had again been silent for far too long: the eyes of the students were upon her, expectant and puzzled. With a gargantuan effort, she gulped and managed to call the name aloud: “Potter, James.” The young James Potter approached the stool, radiating nervous excitement, sat down and placed the hat upon his head. Silence followed, tense, stifling; the hat appeared to be deliberating, just as it had done with his father, Harry. At last it opened its rip and proclaimed “Gryffindor!”, to be greeted with tumultuous cheers and a very relieved look on James Potter’s face as he hurried over to join his friends. 

But the moment had swept Minerva into memories of Harry: she remembered the first time she had laid eyes on him, a baby wrapped in a bundle of blankets, sleeping peacefully in Hagrid’s arms, but livid upon his forehead, the scar that was to become the defining factor in his life. She remembered scenes from his school career, some mundane, some from the remarkable trials which fate seemed to put him through every year, building up to his final confrontation with Voldemort. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she saw once more the image of Harry’s apparently lifeless body being carried from the Forest by Hagrid, on that May morning seventeen years ago. She had screamed then, thinking that it was all over, that he was dead; and the remarkable fact was that he had been prepared to die, to sacrifice himself if that was what was needed to defeat Voldemort once and for all. Such courage, in the boy over whom she had watched as housemistress for six years… 

With a start, she returned to the present to find the students once again staring at her; those closest looked embarrassed and a little alarmed to see their Headmistress silently weeping. Horrified, she looked at the staff table – what must they think of her? – but there at least, she saw others similarly affected by the sight of this boy who looked so like his father and grandfather. Professor Flitwick was sniffing, and Hagrid was crying unashamedly, wiping the tears from his cheeks with a huge red handkerchief. Blaise Zabini’s disdainful face brought her back to her senses. She had to regain control of herself. She forced a deep breath, glanced down and called the next name on the parchment: 

“Reeves, Valentine”

“Ravenclaw!” 

“Skinner, Domitian”

“Slytherin!” 

As she worked through the rest of the list, her voice and bearing returned to normality, but internally she was still in turmoil, appalled at how much she had been affected by the emotions which she usually strove to keep in check. When the Sorting was over, she managed to say a few words of welcome to the assembled students before sinking gratefully into her seat. The feast appeared, delicious as always, but she found that she had no appetite and sat toying with her food, barely hearing the comments addressed to her by her fellow staff. She still felt deeply shaken and ashamed by the way in which she had succumbed to her feelings, putting them on view for all to see. That would never do. After the feast she managed a few words to the school as a whole before dismissing them and heading gratefully back to the sanctuary of her rooms.


	3. Resolution

Minerva still felt agitated as she opened the door into the Head’s study. Seeing the fire burning brightly in the grate, she crossed over to warm her hands at it and found Winky sitting by the hearth. “Can Winky fetch mistress anything?” asked the house-elf.

“Thank you, Winky… I would appreciate some camomile tea,” replied the Headmistress slightly shakily. “Winky shall fetch it right away, mistress,” squeaked the elf, and hurried away. 

Minerva went into the bed-chamber, removed her hat and laid it carefully on the dressing-table. Then she went back into the study and seated herself at the large desk. When the elf returned with a tray of tea-things, she murmured “Thank you Winky, that will be all for tonight. You may go,” in a rather absent voice. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat in silence for quite a while, sipping it and staring at nothing.

“Is something troubling you, Minerva?” A voice behind her roused her, causing her to turn. Dumbledore’s tone was gentle, but his blue eyes looked piercingly at her over the half-moon spectacles. She swallowed and turned to face him. There was no point trying to conceal anything from Albus Dumbledore.

“I believe I must think about retiring, Albus. I am getting too old for this job… too old and too sentimental. I was almost overcome tonight… reading out the students’ names for the sorting… it brought back memories, you see. Memories of…” her voice tailed into silence, then she gave a little cough. “Hogwarts cannot be led by someone over-emotional. It is time I gave way to someone with more…self-control.”

Dumbledore considered her for a moment, wearing a thoughtful expression that she remembered so well on him in life. “Memories, Minerva?” he asked gently. 

“Yes…it was the new students, you see. Neville Longbottom’s son was one of them – Neville has named him after his father, Frank. It made me think of Frank Longbottom – the things that evil woman did to him and Alice… well, you know what happened.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Of course,” he replied quietly, waiting for her to continue.

“And then there was” – she gulped – “James Potter. Harry’s elder son. You know, he looks the image of the first James. Absolutely the image. It just made me remember… you know, James and his friends… and Lily… and then Harry, all the things he had to go through. Such terrible things, and he was so brave…and then all the ones we lost in the war…” her voice trailed away and she sniffed. A tiny smile came to her lips as she said “Do you know, I even found myself missing Fred Weasley?”

Dumbldore gave a small chuckle in return. “And what happened?” he prompted.

“I… became emotional,” she whispered, ashamed even now: it was hard just to admit it. “I found myself unable to speak – shedding tears – in front of the whole school, Albus!” Her voice was louder now. “This must never happen again! I will have to resign!” and with that she gathered her robe around her and began to pace up and down, distractedly. Dumbeldore’s quiet voice returned her to stillness: “Would you like to hear my opinion, Minerva?”

She turned to face his portrait, inclined her head. “Of course, Albus.” She became aware that she was not the only one waiting to hear what Dumbledore had to say: around the walls, the previous headmasters and mistresses were listening to their exchange in silent, rapt attention. Few things were private for the Head of Hogwarts.

Steepling his long fingers in front of him, Dumbledore thought for a moment and then looked at her, holding her eyes with his light blue gaze. When he spoke, it was slowly, giving weight to each word: 

“The reason your emotions almost overcame you this evening, Minerva, was because you remembered people that you had cared for – people you had loved. I have said it many times: it is love that makes us human. We are at our best and greatest when we love. Love is our strength. Such feelings do not disgrace you, Minerva. They are a credit to you. I have great confidence, knowing that the school is in the hands of one who can feel such love.”

At this a slight murmur ran round the walls of “Hear, hear… well said, Dumbledore… doing a grand job, Minerva,” and so on. Breathing deeply with relief, Professor McGonagall turned to look at the other Heads of Hogwarts and saw that Severus Snape, still silent, was staring penetratingly at her. As soon as she looked at him, however, he returned his gaze to the book on his lap as though he had never looked up. Intrigued and slightly irked, she crossed the study and stood in front of his portrait. “What about you, Severus?” she asked quietly. “Do you think I should retire?”

Snape turned slowly to face her, and laconically raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask me, Minerva?”

“Never mind that,” she replied with a trace of impatience. “I am asking you, Severus. What do you think I should do?”

Snape glanced down for a moment and then met her eyes again. “You say that it was the elder Potter boy who arrived this evening?” he asked curtly. “Not…” his expression seemed to soften for a moment, and then became more unreadable than ever “…the younger one?”

“That’s right” replied McGonagall, remembering as she did so that Harry’s younger son bore Severus’s name. Was it possible, she asked herself, that he felt some kind of concerned interest in the boy? “Why do you ask?”

Snape did not reply, but continued to stare at her for a moment and then said, in a tone of indifference “I think you may as well stay for a few more years, Minerva. You appear to be doing a quite satisfactory job to me.”

A strange idea arose in Minerva’s mind: could it be that Snape really did have a fondness for Harry Potter’s younger son, and could it be that he trusted her more than a stranger to watch over Albus Severus’s school career? Professor McGonagall held his gaze as though challenging him, searching for a sign that this was so, but the black eyes remained expressionless, unfathomable. After a moment she inclined her head slightly and replied “Thank you, Severus. And everyone” she added, clearing her throat and looking around once more at the assembled headmasters and headmistresses. “You are all… very kind. Perhaps, Albus, you are right”. She turned again to face Dumbledore’s portrait. “Perhaps I can still be useful here. However, I may consider delegating the task of reading the names for the Sorting.” Her mind drifted to Filius Flitwick, with whom the duty rightly lay, but he had been just as moved as her… No, that would not do. Someone else… Looking Dumbledore once more in the face, she said decisively “One of the younger members of staff should be able to do that just as well.”

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed as they rested on her, a slight smile on his face. “A very good idea, Minerva” he replied. 

THE END


End file.
